


Siren Universe/ Unused Inquisitor

by WhiskyTangoFoxtrot



Series: Up For Grabs [5]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-04
Updated: 2015-10-04
Packaged: 2018-04-24 16:37:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4927093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiskyTangoFoxtrot/pseuds/WhiskyTangoFoxtrot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A chapter I wrote very early in the life of my long form fic. This inquisitor was kind of boring, I thought, so I scrapped it. But I did say I would start publishing deleted scenes at some point, so here's the first of a few I have.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Siren Universe/ Unused Inquisitor

The bells tolled Third and Ione was restless. She crawled out of bed and moved to the makeshift vanity between the balcony doors, grabbing a brush off the table. She sat on the adjoining chair and gave her long blonde hair a hundred brushstrokes, plaited it into a braid, and laid back in the bed. She was just drifting off when the bells rang Fourth. Her eyes snapped open and she sighed. Resignedly, she dragged herself out of bed and pulled on a green tunic and soft grey leather pants. She looked in the mirror at her red-rimmed eyes, the long braid, the small scar that cut her left eyebrow, and decided that she looked nothing like the Inquisitor. She hoped that it was early enough that she could make it down to the practice yards without being noticed. Peering in the mirror again, she undid the braid and instead just plaited a row along her crown, leaving the rest of the shining honey waves free.

Pummeling a dummy with a practice staff would feel good, after her day yesterday. In the morning, a meeting at the War Table that dissolved to shouting at the Commander when she again suggested that her magic would create a problem when trying to recruit the Templars. In the afternoon, preventing the cook and quartermaster from murdering Sera when she again let the chickens free in the courtyard, and then apologizing and brown nosing the dignitaries visiting that were disrupted by them. In the evening, another meeting at the war table, to decide again where and how to allocate forces and supplies to best spread their interests. The meeting was terse, and the Commander short with her.

It was after Ninth when she retired to her tower to her growing stack of correspondence. It was grinding tedium, this merchant requesting dispensation, this Arl disavowing them, this request for political aid which would rebound on her in some yet to be determined way. She felt sleepy after the third letter, so she crawled into bed, and knocked out. Now here she was, wide awake at a Maker forsaken hour, and, well, grumpy.

So down the stairs she went, past the kitchens, out the door, and down the stairs past the stables. One of the mares whickered as she passed, and she stopped to pat its nose and feed it a handful of oats from the bag on the door. The embers burned low in the fire pit under Blackwall's alcove and she raised a hand to nudge them with her magic.

A deep voice interrupted her. "No need, my lady, I am on my way out." 

She jumped. Blackwall was stealthy, when he wanted to be, and took some delight in scaring her at camp. She trained herself, on their last outing to the Hinterlands, not to squeak when he startled her but this time she barely managed, covering her gasp with a cough.

He was not fooled, and he smiled at her. It lit up his eyes and she could not help but smile back. "Ser Blackwall, are you going to the yards?" She asked.

"I am. Walk with me?" He waved his hand in front of himself, palm up, gesturing for her to lead.

She patted the horse on the nose one more time, and they walked toward the gates in silence. They were new friends, and she liked they way he knew how to be quiet. Most of the time. He knew when to be verbose, and when to be vulgar, and when to shut up. She enjoyed the simplicity of his company, and his shocking blue eyes and broad shoulders were pleasant to look at. She idly wondered if his chest was as hairy as his face. 

Blackwall, for himself, enjoyed Trevelyan. She had a sense of humor, and if she didn't know any jokes it wasn't like she didn't laugh at them. She always had a quip or dry remark at the ready, and she seemed to be unaware of the effect she had on him. She made his pulse race, and her smile made something in his gut sink. He watched as she sorted through the stack of practice staves, hefting a few to see if she liked them. She settled on one and removed her jacket to hang it on the nearest post. 

She turned, clad in a white, short-sleeved shift tucked into her soft breeches, and boots, and spun the staff in front of her in an arc, slamming the tip into the ground. She smiled, wolfishly. The scar in her eyebrow made the expression positively sinister, and her green eyes flashed with challenge.

He chose a short sword and sword-breaker, instead of his usual heavy shield. Ione raised her cut eyebrow. He walked to her, in the middle of the ring, and saluted with the sword breaker in his left hand. She rolled her eyes and rested the staff across the back of her neck, hooking her wrists over the top. He lunged at her and she ducked out of his way, hitting him on the backside with her staff, which was still casually spiraled across her shoulders.

Blackwall grunted and turned around, catching his balance on the the ends of his weapons. He stood and squared his shoulders, and moved back into stance. 

The staff stayed where it was and she leaned back, adjusting her center of gravity. She smirked at him, looking right in his eyes. He growled a laugh as he charged her, knowing what was coming next but letting her win anyway. He stabbed both swords at her midsection, she caught them with her staff, she used leverage to throw him off. Instead of tripping him and making him yield, as he expected, she released his weapons and kicked him in the stomach. He fell back to the ground, and as he did he laughed louder. 

"Is that how you want it, my lady?" The words salted the air as they came out of him. They sounded differently than he intended. 

A blush crept up her cheeks, and her chuckle was throatier than he remembered from their travels. He stood, dusted himself off, removed his doublet. Blackwall cracked his neck, rolling it, and flexed his arms. (As a gentleman he was required to ignore her audible gasp as he did.) He risked a look at her.

Ione was staring at him, her green eyes wide pools. The tip of her pink tongue was mashed between her lips. She inhaled deeply as he looked at her, caught her watching. She grunted and spun the staff around her neck, rested the butt on the ground. "Sure, you're all show, Inquisitor." He said quietly. "But can you fight?"

She gestured for him to pick his weapons, and he held up a hand, retreating to the sideline briefly to get a shield. Properly geared, he saluted Ione once more and they began in earnest. She struck first, with a hard thwack on his shield, and he swung at her wide, even as she brought the other end up to block him. He spun, using the momentum to swing back with the wooden buckler, but she threw herself to the ground as the blow passed through her space, and tangled her feet in his, tripping him to the ground. She kicked him in the shin and flipped over to stand up. He grunted and levered himself back to his feet.

An hour, maybe, passed, as they sparred. Blackwall would occasionally land a blow and she would wave him off, or she would pop him too hard in the chest and take his wind, and he would cough and sputter and she would tease him for being so _old_ and he would pick up his weapons and salute her again. Finally, they were both exhausted and Ione said, "You know what? I yield." She wobbled over to the weapon rack and placed her staff in one of the slots. She sat, exhausted, breathing hard, against the outer wall of the keep.

He chuckled, and the corners of his eyes crinkled as he looked down at her. The plait in her hair was coming undone, and long wet locks stuck to her face and arms. Her shift was soaked with sweat and the outline of her breast band was barely visible as her chest heaved from exertion. He walked over to his doublet and pulled out a waterskin and brought it to Ione without a word. She took it and downed half of it in a gulp.

He sat down next to her, against the cold stones, which were oddly soothing against his sweating back. He stretched a bit and groaned. "I will feel this tomorrow. And the next day, most likely."

"As will I, Ser Blackwall." She looked down for a moment and noticed he was still wearing his gloves. She shifted her weight to grab both his hands, grunting with pain as she rolled over onto one hip. "Maker's leg, did you have to hit me in the ass so many times?"

"It's a pretty target, your Worship," he said, smirking. "Besides, you started it."

She laughed and stood, holding his hands to pull him up too. "I guess I did. I should really go back and take a bath. I'm supposed to be in the war room at seventh bell."

"Well, first we have to hobble back inside the keep." He grunted and knuckled his back.

" _You_ can hobble. I shall walk," she said, grinning.

"As you say, my lady. Just remember who won four bouts of five."

"I remember nothing,"she deadpanned.

"If you like. You are, after all, in charge." 

\---

She hissed as she lowered herself into the scalding hot copper tub, and sat back to soak. Warden Blackwall was certainly fascinating, she thought as she dunked her head under the surface of the water. While she washed her hair and rinsed it, she thought idly about the bout with him. She thought about her technique with the staff, and how she could best him next time. She was certain there would be one; both of them had had fun, and she'd been especially pleased at how hard he'd pushed her. Most of the soldiers and Inner Circle held back when she approached the ring, and the only time she felt challenged was when she traveled outside of Skyhold. She was considering a moment during their fourth bout, when Blackwall feinted left and she pretended to fall for it, and he'd just smiled knowingly, seeming to read her mind and totally prepared for her overhand strike. He held up his shield and she tried to use the leverage of the length of her staff to press it closer to him. He kicked at her left leg, she fell forward face first onto the buckler and he used it to push her back onto her ass. She flew back, landed hard and slid back a few feet. Before he could close on her, she'd scrambled up onto all fours and scurried away from him, but he was quickly beside her, smacking her backside with the flat of his sword. She rolled away, got to her feet, glared at him. He'd just laughed.She found she liked his laugh, which was more of a rumble and less of a roar. She thought of the Commander's laugh (now there was a roar, throaty when she'd kissed Cullen behind his ear) and how it made the golden flecks in his eyes shine more brightly. It made her spine tremble, made her lightheaded. (Maker, he is just beautiful,) she thought. The water in her bath was finally the perfect temperature so she began to wash, but as she did, her hands began to wander over her own body. The water, and her own delicate touch , the breeze blowing in through the one cracked balcony door.... _oh, Cullen, oh please don't stop yes, wonderful, just like that_ and her hands moved faster. Her back arched and her mind unconsciously shifted and she was not picturing a blond head between her legs as she stroked, his hair was black and his eyes were bright blue and his beard was coarse on her thighs and she _came._

\---

"It's a pretty target," he snorted to himself. (Maker take me, I am a foolish, foolish man.) he thought. It gratified him, the work he was doing with the Inquisition, helping people. Shit, he was helping to save the world. And he did believe he was who he chose to follow. Following her... 

It was exciting, exhilarating. It was good work. And she was a tempest, with her lightning bolts and bright green eyes and gorgeous hips that would sway just so when she planted a flag in the ground. She was a good woman, from a noble family but never haughty, thrust into a position of leadership. She did it well, with humor and the force of her personality. He observed that she chose the path of least bloodshed, and if it netted her information, so much the better. Ione cared for her people, too, and more than once he'd seen her throw herself into the front of the battle to draw attention away from Sera or Dorian or Varric.

Blackwall got a few buckets of water from the nearby well. He didn't bother heating them, he just took them upstairs and stripped, dumping the icy cold liquid over his head to chase his thoughts of Ione (her Worship, or Lady Inquisitor, her name in his head was a bad idea) out of his mind.

But Maker, the image of her on all fours, scrambling away from him to retrieve her staff. Andraste's ass, he should probably just dip his cock in the next bucket of freezing water and be done with it. He washed the sweat of their battle off of himself' regretting that it washed her scent away, too.

\----

Cassandra waved at the Inquisitor as they passed each other in the Great Hall. The Seeker was coming out of the Undercroft after seeing Harrit about a broken buckle on her chest plate. He had asked her to leave it with him; he would fix it that day, but was eyeball deep in sword requisitions for the army. When she left he was dipping a white hot piece of metal into a bucket of oil and telling her to come back after dinner. He really hadn't given her any options, and he didn't seem to have time to talk. Also, the way he hammered the blade, sparks showered around him in a wide arc. She suspected it was on purpose, but the last person any warrior wanted angry was their armorer.

Ione smiled and said hello, and hustled into Josephine's office just as the bells tolled Seventh. Cassandra wandered towards the fireplace near the front of the Hall where Varric usually worked. It had been about a week since they kissed in her room (twice!) but she had been busy working on the next chapter of Blight's Redemption and had barely been out except to train and eat. She usually practiced at dawn, probably when the dwarf was heading to bed, and she got her food from the kitchen in the tavern, which was a shorter walk from her quarters than the tables in the main hall.

(I am not avoiding him,) she thought as she strode towards his desk. To her surprise, he was already there, his quill scratching across the bottom of a piece of parchment. He signed his name and picked up a small wide green dish, pouring sand from it on to the parchment to dry the ink. He plucked a paintbrush out of the cup of quills on his desk, and brushed the sand back into its container. He tilted his head, rereading his letter. Cassandra decided that she would not bother him, and continued to move toward the doors.

"Seeker," he said, "aren't you going to say hello?"

She paused, and turned. "Hello." She did not know what else to say. 

He met her eyes, and they did not speak. "You've been avoiding me, Seeker." He finally stated. 

"I have not."

He stared at her, expectantly. 

"I have been busy." 

He narrowed his eyes when she said that. She said nothing more, and they looked into each other's eyes for another moment. His gaze held heat. He did not bother to disguise it. The memory of their kisses burned on her lips and she unconsciously raised a hand to touch them, but caught herself. He smirked at her reaction (he knew!), and risked a step closer, around the desk to stand in front of her. "To be fair, I haven't exactly hunted you down."

"You know where to find me." She said, running a suddenly nervous hand through her close-cropped black hair. Her braid fell askew and she adjusted it, and he could not help but smile at the knowledge that he had flustered her so, with a step and a look. He put a hand on her arm, rubbing two circles over her elbow with his thumb.

"I know where to find you," he repeated. "But that doesn't tell me if you want to be found. Or if you're angry? I don't want to get stabbed in the book again." His face changed, partly with humor, partly unsure how she would react to his statement.

He was shocked when she laughed. It made her whole demeanor change, and it was fucking beautiful, and Andraste's tits, he was a goner. He ran his thumb up her arm briefly, looking up at her with liquid eyes and she didn't glare back at him, even a little bit. "So am I safe?" He asked.

"Beignets." She said. "The cook in the tavern knows how to make Orlesian beignets. With the peels of oranges. They are delicious," she said shyly (Maker, she was shy!) she cleared her throat and straightened her shoulders. His hand fell away from her arm. "I would... Um." 

"You want me to come and have breakfast with you? All you have to do is ask." He knew he was pushing it, but he couldn't resist. Cassandra raised her eyebrows.

"I am not angry with you." She said after a moment. "But I am unsure how to proceed. So, breakfast?"

"I would like that. Let me put these away." Varric went back around the desk.

**Author's Note:**

> She's kinda dull, but I like the fight with Blackwall a lot. And the early relationship Cass/Varric is kinda cute, and I wish I'd used it.


End file.
